(_A Golf-match has recently been played at Bushey by night._)
Not in the noontide's horrid glare
When nervousness and lunch combined
And James's shoes and well-oiled hair
Perturb me, but when Cynthia fair
In heaven is shrined,
I show my perfect form, and play
Big brassie-shots like EDWARD RAY.
By night I am _plus_ four. By day----
Well, never mind.
With elfin stance I stride the tee
And deal my orb an amorous slap
In the mid-moonshine's mystery,
And Puck preserves the stroke for me
From foul mishap;
Pan saves me from the casual pot
And Dryad nymphs upbear my shot
Outstripping James's (James has got
No soul, poor chap).
The little pixies of the wood
Come thronging round him while he putts;
They do his game no kind of good
But many an unseen toadstool-hood
Their craft unshuts;
They turn his eye-balls to and fro
And make marsh-lanterns round him glow;
He is all off, whilst I am--oh!
One of the nuts.
The gossips by the club-room fire
Applaud my game with constant din:
"Approach-work never was so dire,
No mashies on this earth expire
So near the tin;
You ought to watch his tee-shots whizz
At number nine. Hot stuff he is.
The captain's lunar vase is his,
If he goes in."
And so I do. My argent sphere
Goes speeding through the night's opaque;
No hazards of the sand I fear,
The heavenly huntress keeps me clear
Of thorn and brake;
Not Dionysus' spotted ounce
More featly on the sward may bounce;
I hover like a hawk at pounce,
Putt out----and wake.